


Moving On

by kscribbles



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Self-cest, Slash, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kscribbles/pseuds/kscribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Youve broken the rules of time, he says, standing by the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moving On

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is, my first publicly copped to kinkmeme fic. I've written a handful, all but this remain anonymous. Unbeta'd, by meme's design. Be kind to my first (official) attempt at slash. This is fairly dark, for me... Takes place sometime after _The Waters of Mars_ and before events alluded to in _The End of Time, Part One_ (and pre- _Rose_ , technically). Still mostly PWP. Written in 2010.

He’s not sure why he’s come here. It’s one of his first stops after leaving Adelaide Brooke’s street. He’s been running. Running, always running, trying to get the echo of her gunshot, and the clanging of the cloister bell out of his head.

The bar is familiar. And not just because it's just like thousands of others scattered across this galaxy. Bright colours, loud music that somehow barely permeates the subconscious, lonely people looking to be alone or looking for someone to be alone with. It's familiar because... he's been here before. Oh, a lifetime ago.

There it is, that slight tickling burn in the back of his head that says memories have been and gone. Taken away for his own good. And there _he_ is. His last self, nursing a drink, hunched over the bar in his already ever-present leather jacket, though he must have only selected it... what, a couple of months ago, at most?

His old self doesn't even look all that surprised when he carefully arranges himself on the stool next to him. Cold blue eyes settle on him, recognition sizzling through their depths, and then acknowledgment, just as quickly.

His Ninth self looks back down at his drink. “Still not going so well, then?” he asks.

He returns a mirthless chuckle. “You could say that.”

“Barkeep!” the other's northern burr rings innocuously, with a slight slur he knows is only an affectation. “A drink for my friend here. He'll have what I'm having.”

The dark liquid in the small glass burns as it slides down his throat and he finds he loves that fire. Nods for another immediately. When he lifts the second glass to his lips he sees that those blue eyes on him again.

“It doesn't get any easier, does it? Being the last? Living with what I've... we've done?”

He chuckles again, tosses the drink back and sets the glass down heavily, without breaking the other's gaze. “Oh, it does. Then it doesn't. And does again. It's not... I don't know if it's the worst thing you've yet to do.”

“Comforting,” the other grumbles.

“I didn't come here for comfort.”

“No?” There's a challenge in those blue eyes.

“Not for yours,” he finds himself clarifying. And just like that, he's answered the challenge.

The other squints for a moment, then nods, rising quickly from his stool, drawing credits from the depths of his leather pocket and slamming them down on the counter. He strides away without a backward glance, the unconscious swagger of a man that is sure he’ll be followed. Had that even then, then.

He does follow, of course. Silently, he pursues his former self, out of the crowded bar, into the cold night, the pouring dark rain of this mining planet, two blocks or so through a rubbish strewn street. Up several flights of a rickety wooden staircase, through a door with no lock–a door no one would see if they didn’t know where to look. They trudge into a sparse room he vaguely remembers. Bed, dresser, loo, curtains that would block out every bit of the eventual sun. All well worn, but not off-putting. As anonymous as everything and everyone else on this planet. He hangs back by the closed door, not nervous, exactly, but apprehensive, nonetheless.

The other breaks the silence first.

“You’ve broken the rules of time,” he says, standing by the bed, shedding his sodden leather jacket and tossing it to the floor in a heap.

It’s not a question, and he’s not sure whether or not he’ll answer. He’s a little distracted by the way the wet jumper clings to his chest. Then the jumper is torn away as well.

“Oh yes,” he says, swallowing. What an odd sensation, to be aroused by oneself. But he is, forcefully. He can feel his cock hardening already. “Quite.”

“And not just by returning here, I’m assuming?” he asks, bending to unlace his heavy boots.

He shrugs out of his own wet coat, feeling its weight hug his ankles, but makes no further movement. “You have no idea.”

The other is standing again, barefoot, fingers poised on the fastenings of his jeans. “I feel I might regret this,” he says, sighing and dropping his hands to his sides, “but do you want to talk about it?”

It’s exactly the wrong thing to say. Or perhaps the exact right thing to say. Either way, his paralysis is broken quite suddenly and in a few strides he is on the other man, digging his fingers into his arms, shoving his hips up against him and growling in his ear.

“Do you really want to know?” His teeth nip at the neck of his former self, then his mouth latches on, making a mark that this man will wonder about in the morning.

“I can wait,” the other gasps, turning his head to capture his mouth.

Their tongues battle briefly, before he wrenches his mouth away.

“I can’t,” he says, fumbling with the button and zip of the other man’s jeans.

Lips are on his again and he savours the taste that is both himself and not, knowing this will be the last time, the only time, he’ll have this. He drives his hands under wet denim and strokes the other’s hardening cock, eliciting a groan. He releases him quickly, though, returning his hands to his hips and shoving the garment off them to pool between their feet.

He pulls his mouth away again and looks his former self in the eye. “Turn around.”

The blue eyes, now darkened with lust, show a flash of surprise. He wasn’t expecting it to go this way.

There is a brief moment of silent power struggle, where he knows the other is considering denying his request (complying with his command, really) or even calling this all off. But then there is a small nod, jeans are kicked aside, and the body he knew all too briefly is bending over the low bed onto his elbows, knees on the ground.

He sucks in a harsh breath through his nose, has an unwelcome moment of doubt himself, but the presentation before him is too tempting, the erection still confined in his trousers, too insistent. And damn that need for the touch of his own kind, even if it is his _own_ –he finds himself tearing at his trousers and falling to his knees as well before he can think himself out of it.

“You have–?” he gasps, freeing his cock

“In my coat,” the other grunts, but he was already reaching for it and quickly finds what he wants in an inside pocket.

He uncaps the small clear bottle and pours the slick substance onto his hand. He prepares the other man, quickly, efficiently. One finger enters him, then two. He’s tense only for a moment at the beginning, then he’s pushing back against him, seeking the retreating fingers.

“Get on with it,” comes his younger self’s command, muffled by the bedclothes.

He nods even though he knows he can’t be seen, grabs the lubricant again and coats himself with it, several firm strokes along his cock that make him groan with need. He wants, desperately wants, to plunge forward, fuck the man before him into oblivion, but he is him _self_. A wave of affection washes over him, calming his lust just enough so that he can be gentle. He places one steadying hand on the other man’s hip, and guides himself to his entrance with the other. He pushes in slowly and the two of them hiss together at the sensation. He’s almost unbearably tight around him, but it is exactly what he needs–the ecstasy, the hint of pain with it, the hard body yielding under him.

Clutching the other man’s hips, he seats himself fully with a grunt and draws back, groaning again. The man beneath him stays silent as he thrusts again, harder. Again, faster, and again, again and he’s panting now, through gritted his teeth, trying to make this last. He doesn’t want it to end, to leave this body, this room, this cocoon, where there is nothing but two versions of himself, doing their damndest to blur the lines between them.

He’s slamming his hips forward without hesitation now, falling into the haze where there is nearly nothing apart from feeling and the need to come. Bent over the body he’d once inhabited, the buttons of his wet suit jacket digging into them both, he vaguely hears the sounds of flesh on flesh, the gasps and small noises of pleasure the other man is finally making.

“Are you going to come?” he hears himself ask into the other’s ear, his voice scathing. And suddenly he wants to restrain the man’s hands, pull him away from the bed, deny him any friction aside from the slide of the cock inside him. The impulse shocks him into faltering his rhythm; the rumbling groan he receives in answer from beneath him tells him it’s too late to implement any such cruelty.

He half expects to be shoved off the man’s back, but isn’t. After a moment of stillness, hips continue to push back against his, encouraging him to go on. He shakes off the darkness that had tried to creep into him and resumes his frantic thrusting, and seconds later he’s coming as well, swelling and pulsing deep inside the other man. His climax seems to go on forever, like the exquisite tension that has built might never be fully released. On and on the waves of pleasure scream through him. It’s wonderful and it’s terrible because it does, like everything, eventually end.

He can’t be arsed to move just yet. Even though his knees ache, and this probably isn’t comfortable for the man beneath him either, he is content to stay where he is, collapsed against his Ninth self.

A hand comes up and gently strokes the hairs above the nape of his neck. The tenderness of the gesture is anathema to him right now and he wants to withdraw but the hand holds him fast. “What–” the other man says softly, “What have they done to you?”

At that, he does successfully move away, removing the hand from around his neck and pulling out his softening cock. He gets to his feet, ignoring the weakness in his knees and post-orgasmic lethargy, and refastens his trousers before he answers.

“Really,” he says, “you don’t want to know.”

The man on the bed rolls over onto his back and budges up so that he’s fully on the bed, naked as the day he was loomed. He laces his fingers behind his head, looking completely unfazed. “It’s not like I’ll remember anyway. Will I?”

“No. Not even now. No triggers, nothing. Completely gone.”

“Then say what you’ve got to,” the other insists.

He considers giving in. Proverbially unburdening his soul. He wonders if it would bring him any peace, any relief. But he shakes his head.

“I’ve done all I’ve needed to do.” He realises the truth of it as he says it. He hadn’t planned on this... encounter when he’d arrived here, hadn’t even consciously known he’d find himself here, but doesn’t regret it.

The other sighs again. “No,” he says, “not everything.”

“Right.” He nods and climbs on all fours above the man on the bed, carefully avoiding the wet portion of the duvet, as if the pounding rain outside wouldn’t wash all the evidence away anyway. He places his fingers on the temples of his former self and delves into the familiar mind, removing the memory of the last half an hour or so from his head with surgical precision, and further covering the gap with a gentle hypnotic suggestion to ignore the inconsistencies that came with losing time.

The other man’s eyes close in sleep as the changes wrought in his mind take hold and solidify. He tamps down the impulse to do something so maudlin as to kiss him on the lips or forehead or whisper his thanks. He simply climbs off the bed and retrieves his coat by the door.

He does allow himself one final look back at the man he once was, sleeping peacefully.

He’ll do this again, he knows. Try to forget himself, to drown his fears, in sex. Not with any other versions of himself, though. His psyche doesn’t need any more of that kind of damage, thanks.

But he’s _dying_. So say the prophesies. Why shouldn’t he have some fun before he goes? Indulge himself a little. Didn’t he _deserve_ that?

He’ll get to the Oodsphere where he’s been summoned when he’s damn well good and ready.

For now, though... Onwards and upwards. Busy life. Move on.

  


FIN

* * *

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
This story archived at <http://www.whofic.com/viewstory.php?sid=35624>


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